The fear that composers might face extinction in the age of AI is not just a sci-fi scenario—it’s a very real and immediate dilemma. But here’s where it gets controversial: while AI promises a dazzling future for creativity, many professionals in the arts are being told, almost casually, that their skills will soon be obsolete. This unsettling reality was something I encountered firsthand during a visit to a sleek Silicon Valley hacker mansion—part startup hub, part luxury retreat, part glimpse into tomorrow.
These houses are scattered throughout the region, blending high-tech innovation with opulence. One standout, located in Hillsborough—a wealthy San Francisco suburb—boasts marble floors and Zen gardens, a perfect backdrop for billionaires and visionaries to dream up the future. It was on a bright June afternoon in such a place that I arrived with my producer, Fay Lomas, to film interviews for a BBC Radio 3 documentary exploring the collision between generative AI and classical music in Silicon Valley.
We were told, in no uncertain terms, that soon professional creatives would exist primarily as hobbyists. There was no sarcasm or dramatic build-up—just a flat, confident statement of fact. Fay's immediate reaction reflected the natural human response to such news: "So AI’s going to get rid of my job?" That brief interruption changed the tone in the room instantly, turning an intellectual discussion into a deeply personal concern.
At the documentary’s start, I shared the common curiosity about how AI could aid creativity, joking that "the cat’s out of the bag"—a way to acknowledge AI’s inevitability while remaining optimistic. Yet Fay later recalled the rapid shift from excitement about AI’s potential to a chilling acceptance of its capacity to replace entire creative roles, all delivered with an encouraging smile as if we should feel thrilled.
This moment captures the heart of the story: when abstract possibilities suddenly become personal and real. The message was clear—they were gearing up to render us unnecessary.
Fast forward to October, after a summer of Oasis's reunion tour lighting up arenas in the UK and US, I found myself reflecting on another kind of mansion—the one at Knebworth House in 1996. That concert, with 250,000 people waving lighters in unison, represented one of the last great communal music experiences before the digital revolution reshaped culture. Back then, everything changed quietly but profoundly, shifting from owning music to accessing it via playlists crafted by software—not by artists—designed to blend seamlessly into our multitasking lives.
We believed we were witnessing the future of music. And in many ways, we were.
So when I later read about RBO/Shift, a promising new initiative from the Royal Ballet and Opera engaging with AI, my initial excitement was tempered by what was clearly missing in the conversation. Despite the project’s promise to pioneer a creative partnership with technology—coming from an institution I deeply respect—there was no discussion about ethical issues, the origins of training data, artist consent, environmental impact, or even the looming threat to jobs within the arts community.
The tone, much like that Silicon Valley mansion, remained relentlessly optimistic. Oliver Mears, the Royal Opera’s artistic director, emphasized the inevitability of AI and the choice to either ignore it or embrace it. But here’s another controversial point: in the heart of where AI is born and bred, nobody is passively "riding the wave". Instead, they're fiercely trying to manipulate it to their advantage, bending tides and shifting moons to control outcomes.
I have no intention of disregarding AI’s role in art. Yet the phrase "the cat’s out of the bag" now strikes me as a form of moral laziness—as if ethical concerns vanish with innovation. After spending months immersed in this technological whirlwind, it’s increasingly uncomfortable to see respected institutions treat AI like a powerful energy source—exciting and profitable but leaking unseen damage without so much as a warning.
Change happens fast in Silicon Valley, which means our documentary already feels like a relic from the final moment before the future began accelerating uncontrollably. That peaceful afternoon in the hacker mansion—with its sunlight, carefully arranged gravel, and calm atmosphere—now seems frozen in time, a still point before a rapid transformation.
Listening back to our recording, the nervous pause after Fay’s question and my uneasy laughter reveal a lingering human hesitation—something fragile but still resisting the tide.
If Oasis at Knebworth marked the end of the pre-internet musical era, then perhaps this small captured moment represents the breath held just before machines begin composing their own symphony.
What do you think? Are we hurtling toward a creative renaissance with AI, or are we witnessing the slow erasure of human artistry? Share your views and join the conversation—because this debate is only just beginning.
